


A dream within a...oh, wait

by Lenore



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Inception (2010)
Genre: Caper Fic, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-07
Updated: 2010-11-07
Packaged: 2017-10-13 02:52:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames keeps planning jobs that involve Adam Lambert. Arthur keeps going along with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A dream within a...oh, wait

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://community.livejournal.com/blackdress_adam/profile)[**blackdress_adam**](http://community.livejournal.com/blackdress_adam/). Huge thanks to [](http://denorios.livejournal.com/profile)[**denorios**](http://denorios.livejournal.com/) for Britpicking and to [](http://redorchids.livejournal.com/profile)[**redorchids**](http://redorchids.livejournal.com/) for helping me whip this story into shape. You guys are the best!

"This really isn't a good idea."

"You always say that, darling." Eames sprawls in the banquette, looking about as unconcerned as a person possibly can.

"Only to _you_ ," Arthur shoots back. Because the problem here isn't that he has no imagination, as Eames is so fond of insinuating, but that Eames himself is utterly infuriating.

"It'll be just like the Weber job," Eames says breezily, as if this should put all Arthur's concerns to rest.

"So a big joke at my expense, in other words," Arthur says darkly.

Eames adopts a wounded expression. "Really, Arthur, I don't know why you always think the worst of me."

Arthur doesn't dignify this.

At least, the Weber job had been profitable, if embarrassing, the mark a CEO with an industrial secret to steal. Why Eames agreed to take on this current assignment is beyond Arthur. The mark's a rock star, for God's sake. Does he even have any secrets left to steal? Eames keeps blithely assuring Arthur, _Gossip's a cutthroat business these days, love. The American tabloids will pay for just about anything, as long as it's naughty._

Arthur can't help suspecting that Eames's real motivation is having another gleeful opportunity to one-up Arthur, which is a favorite hobby of his.

"But I don't understand—"

"Do try and enjoy yourself a little, Arthur. The mark is very personable, from everything I hear, not the sort at all to smash up the crockery and throw his toys out of the pram if the bottled water's not to his liking. And, honestly, how often is it that you meet an actual rock star?"

 _Only in dreams_ , Arthur thinks, and then feels annoyed with himself, as if he's somehow played into Eames's hands. "You still haven't told me how you managed to set this up."

"Haven't I?" Eames toys with the olive in his drink. "It was very simple, really. He hasn't been getting much coverage in the UK. We're awash in our own singing program contestants, apparently. So when someone from Radio 1 called up his management wanting to have a nice get-to-know-you chat with their client—"

"They jumped at the chance."

Eames's mouth curves up in a self-satisfied smile. "Naturally. Of course they're not bloody likely to send their rock star along without his babysitter. That did prove a bit more of a challenge, separating the proverbial wheat from the PR chaff."

He describes the last-minute crisis he engineered involving one of the management company's other clients, and as Arthur listens, the pinch between his eyebrows grows more severe by the moment. "Wait. There's not really a dead hooker, right?" Arthur says. Eames only grins and keeps on grinning when Arthur insists, "No, _seriously_ , tell me there's no dead prostitute."

"Oh, look. There's our boy now." Arthur follows the direction of Eames's gaze, and he thinks he's braced himself for it, but, no, seeing Adam Lambert standing there in the actual flesh still manages to come as a shock. He's dressed in what Arthur supposes is rock star casual, leather pants and jacket over a T-shirt, a handful of necklaces, very much the way he looked— Except, no, Arthur has never met this man before, not in the actual world anyway. He needs to remember that.

Eames rises to his feet. "Mr. Lambert." He offers his hand and introduces himself.

"Adam, please." He shakes hands and smiles politely, although Arthur can't help noticing how his gaze flickers at Eames's jacket, as rumpled as if Eames had slept in it, light reflecting off the too-shiny fabric. Arthur wants to assure Adam, _Not all English people dress like that._

Adam's gaze strays over to Arthur, curious and not without a gleam of appreciation.

"Let me introduce my colleague," Eames says. "Thought you might enjoy having another Yank along, and Arthur here is quite a fan of yours."

Arthur plasters on a smile. Hopefully, he won't have to prove what a big fan he is, since the last concert he went to was Green Day when he was fourteen years old and he only pays attention to things that pertain to his work, which generally doesn't include pop music. If it weren't for that stupid Weber fiasco, he wouldn't even know who Adam Lambert was. He certainly wouldn't be standing there with butterflies in his stomach because Lambert was smiling at him with something like interest in his eyes. Fucking Eames and his fucking games.

"Hey, good to meet you." Adam shakes Arthur's hand.

Arthur tells himself not to stare at Adam's mouth, soft and pink, or his fingers, how long they are, so good at—and he certainly shouldn't—but Arthur's contrary gaze keeps trying to slide lower anyway. For a moment, Arthur thinks he understands what it must feel like to be Dom Cobb—too many memories of things that never happened bumping around inside his head.

Adam gives Arthur a curious look, and belatedly Arthur realizes that his cheeks have gone hot, and he might actually be blushing, and, wonderful, now he can't look Adam in the eye either.

"I had a feeling you two would hit it off," Eames declares, enjoying himself immensely. "Shall we have that drink now?"

Arthur glares. Eames and his fucking games.

 

 

* * *

 

  
The Weber job began the way most jobs did, with a call out of the blue. "I have work for you," Eames said.

"You want me to assemble the team?"

"Just you and me, darling. Garden-variety extraction. Simple in-and-out thing. No need to round up the usual suspects."

They'd done jobs together before, just the two of them, but it certainly should have made Arthur suspicious when all Eames would tell him in advance was, "Really, Arthur, it's so pedestrian I don't want to bore you. I'll give you the rundown when I see you."

Arthur actually went along with that, so honestly he had no one to blame but himself. Although blaming Eames was so much more satisfying.

At the Des Moines airport, Eames met Arthur at the baggage carousel, took charge of his luggage, and deigned to provide a few more details. "Milton Weber, president of a company that makes industrial equipment. Apparently, they've come up with a prototype for a new kind of drill my clients would very much like to have for their own. Luckily, Mr. Weber has some minor bunion surgery scheduled, and his podiatrist has proven most accommodating."

"What's our angle?" A perfectly reasonable question.

Which Eames completely brushed off. "I've got it covered, darling. A week prowling around YouTube, and I know all about his little weakness."

"But—"

"Trust me just this once, will you, Arthur?" He'd looked so earnest about it. "All you need to do is follow my lead."

 _Really_ no one to blame but himself.

In the dream, Arthur found himself in the roomy back seat of a limo, a tall man with bright blue eyes and artfully tousled dark hair pressed close at his side, looking him over in a vaguely predatory way.

No matter how often Arthur worked with Eames, it always came as a fresh surprise what a consummate forger he was, and of course it was all the more startling when Eames hadn't prepared him for it at all. "Fucking bastard," Arthur muttered.

Eames grinned cheerfully as the car came to a stop. "Ready to face the adoring public?"

He didn't wait for an answer, slipping from the car, holding out his hand to Arthur. Hordes of people pressed up against barricades, crazy-eyed and cheering. Cameras went off blindingly, and paparazzi called out, "Adam! Over here! Adam!" A high-pitched squeal cut through the dull roar of other voices, "Oh my God, he's _right there_! I'm going to _faint_!"

Eames flashed a big, bright smile, wound an arm around Arthur's waist, and waved to the crowd.

"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" Arthur asked through clenched teeth.

Eames shook his head in disappointment. "Really, Arthur, you do need to get out more." He gave a final wave and pulled Arthur up some stairs and into a hotel.

"Okay, tell me what you're doing _right now_ ," Arthur insisted once they were inside.

"I'm giving Mr. Weber his fondest fantasy. He has rather a thing for this American Idol fellow. It's quite a secret life he's keeping from Mrs. Weber, I'm afraid."

"You know what a bad idea it is to impersonate someone famous! The projections will—"

"Ordinarily that would be true, but I think you'll find Mr. Weber has a far from ordinary opinion of himself. A cozy drink with a rock star won't seem the least bit unlikely to him."

They found the mark in the hotel bar, a jowly middle-aged man in a conservative blue suit that practically screamed, "I'm from the Midwest." Now _there_ was a lack of imagination, Arthur thought.

"Milton!" Eames-as-Adam kissed the man lightly on the lips. "Sorry we're late! Things are crazy outside."

Arthur had heard Eames put on an American accent before, many times, but something about this voice, higher than Eames's own pitch and with an easy California lilt to it, was distracting.

"Well, everyone does love you." Weber smiled conspiratorially. "I'm glad you still have time for your old friends."

"I'd never come to Des Moines without seeing you! Hope you don't mind I brought a friend along." Arthur expected Eames to introduce him, not grab him by the chin and lay a kiss on him that would have made a lesser man's knees buckle.

Eames whispered in his ear, "You're meant to be playing along, love, remember?"

Arthur resignedly kissed back while pondering ways to kill Eames once this was over. When Eames pulled away at last, Weber was watching with wide eyes. For a moment Arthur thought Eames might have miscalculated, but then Weber said, licking his lips, the words slurred and over-excited, "It's always great to meet friends of yours, Adam."

They settled at a table and ordered martinis. Eames divided his time between invading Arthur's personal space for kisses and laughing at the mark's terrible jokes. Weber grew more glinty-eyed by the moment, and if drool had actually begun to roll down his chin, Arthur would not have been surprised in the least. So it was no wonder, really, that Weber jumped at the first opportunity to say, "I've got a suite upstairs if you want—"

"Awesome!" Eames smiled brightly. "We can have champagne sent up."

On the way to the elevator, Arthur grabbed Eames's arm and hissed into his ear "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Hotel safe, love," Eames said under his breath. "Perfect place for hiding away sex toys you don't want the maid finding, right next to those top-secret drill designs."

Arthur's voice pitched up. "What happens until he opens the safe?"

"Not to worry, darling. He just likes to watch." Eames had the audacity to wink.

The most annoying part was that the job wasn't over, so Arthur couldn't even shoot him in the face.

 

* * *

 

  
Arthur spends the first five minutes of their meeting with Adam nervously looking around for grim-faced security guards striding their direction before remembering: _Oh, right, there are no projections in the real world._  
No one pays them any particular attention. Adam Lambert isn't as well known in England apparently, and if any autograph seekers do turn up, Adam's security team hovers in the background, ready to fend them off.

"Radio 1 keeps getting requests." Eames gestures with his hands, as if to indicate lots and lots of them. " _Play Adam Lambert, play Adam Lambert_. So I had to meet the bloke who's stealing British hearts."

"Wow, that's amazing to hear," Adam answers with a modesty that seems genuine. "I really try to put it all out there, you know? And if people respond, if I can connect with them—that's the best part about being in this business."

Arthur takes a long slug of his drink. He has Eames's thigh pressed firmly against his own and Adam leaning in close on the other side, and he has to keep reminding himself that he hasn't had sex with either of them.

"I know Arthur here feels very connected," Eames offers, in that gravelly, suggestive way of his, and Arthur honestly can't figure out why he's never shot Eames outside of dreams.

Adam laughs, and his gaze lingers on Arthur. There's puzzlement in his expression, as if he doesn't quite know what to make of Arthur or his relationship with Eames, but there's amusement too, along with something warmer, more flirtatious. Arthur has never imagined he'd be attracted to a man who wears more makeup than Ariadne, but Adam is the kind of good-looking that keeps being just a little startling. If Arthur didn't enjoy surprises—whatever Eames may think to the contrary—he would have changed professions a long time ago.

The conversation turns back to Adam's music. Arthur has never wished so hard for someone to be the sort to break crockery and throw tantrums. Instead, Adam uses the word "euphonious," and, God, Arthur has always had a thing for a man with a big vocabulary who knows how to use it.

"Hey, I like this." Adam runs a finger along the lapel of Arthur's suit.

He smiles warmly, and Arthur feels that as much as the touch.

Eames chimes in, "Oh yes, our Arthur is always impeccable."

"Dior, right?" Adam says.

"I'm glad someone appreciates it." Arthur glares at Eames, who deserves this for so many reasons. "Of course, what can you expect from—" He waves his hand at Eames's fashion disaster.

"You wound me, darling. And it's not that I don't appreciate your wardrobe. Only that I'd enjoy it rather more scattered across my bedroom carpet."

Arthur just manages not to choke on his gin and tonic. Eames has teased him for years, annoying and flirting in equal measure, but he flirts with everyone, and Arthur has never taken him particularly seriously.

Eames shakes his head sadly. "I'm having bugger all luck with him, I'm afraid," he confides to Adam.

"You sure about that, honey?" There's an amused tilt to the corner of Adam's mouth as he watches Arthur's reaction.

 _How did I get here again?_ Arthur almost hopes—but, no, he can recall every step: the plane ride and Eames at the airport and the way the cab reeked of fake pine scent on the way over to the hotel.

Eames leans in, his voice dropping low. "Maybe if I had some help persuading him. He does have the odd dream about you, I've had it in good confidence."

 _Shut up!_ Arthur wants to scream at Eames.

But then Adam says, "Awesome! I've got a suite upstairs, and people tell me I can be very persuasive."

"Excellent," Eames declares. "We can have champagne sent up."

Arthur has never felt the need to take out his die more urgently.

 

* * *

 

  
Only Eames would describe a job that involved a threesome as "pedestrian," but at least he hadn't been bullshitting about Weber's personal preferences. The man really did just want to watch. The moment they got to the suite, he ensconced himself in an armchair, looking expectant, waiting to be entertained.

"Just a dream, darling," Eames reminded Arthur, whispering against his cheek, breath warm on Arthur's skin as he moved in for a kiss.

Of course, Arthur kissed back. It was only professional.

Not Eames's face, and not the real world, and they weren't actually having sex at all. Arthur kept telling himself that as Eames undressed him and took off his own clothes. It certainly wasn't Eames's body: taller, less densely muscled, pale skin with freckles as far as the eye could see. The voice in Arthur's ear was higher too, more lilting as it told him, "You're so beautiful, baby, you feel so good." Not Eames's words, and Arthur tried very hard not to wonder what Eames actually did say to his lovers.

Eames pushed Arthur down onto the edge of the bed, with a firm touch and a sweet smile. Apparently, Adam Lambert was the toppy sort. _Not real, not actually having sex_ , Arthur repeated in his head very firmly as Eames knelt between his legs and sucked his dick and pressed slick fingers inside him. Arthur tried not to look, because it would just be easier, but then when had he ever done things the easy way? Bright, blue eyes were focused on him, a familiar spark in them, a little bit of Eames showing through. He was far too good a forger to let that happen by accident, which could only mean…

Eames wanted Arthur to see him.

Arthur slid his fingers into Adam's—into _Eames's_ hair and rode his mouth. It wasn't just pain you felt in dreams, but all the physical sensations. Pleasure. Frustration. Arthur bit his lip. Just a little bit _more_ , and he could have come. Only Eames chose that moment to pull away, because in any guise, Eames was a _bastard_.

"Hey, I bet you've got some toys hidden around here someplace. Right?" Eames said, glancing meaningfully at the closet where the safe was tucked away.

It took Arthur a moment to realize he was talking to the mark. He'd completely forgotten there was anyone else in the room, and he carefully avoided looking over at Weber. He didn't want to know what the man had been up to while they were—

"Maybe something leather?" Eames prompted, in a voice that could convince anyone of anything. "My baby looks pretty in a harness." He nuzzled at Arthur's thigh.

"Does he like to be tied up?" Weber ventured hopefully.

"Oh honey, does he ever!"

The mark scrambled up from his chair, and Arthur was left to wonder if Eames really thought he liked—but no, they had a job to do. Arthur had to concentrate. Weber opened the safe, and Eames moved over to join him.

"Hey, let us surprise you, huh?" He nodded to the bathroom. "Five minutes, and we'll have something really nice waiting for you." He cupped the man's cheek in his hand and kissed him.

Arthur watched with an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, which was absolutely not jealousy. It was just—disapproval, because Eames was an unapologetic slut, even in his dreams.

Weber stood there, blinking and dazed, before babbling, "Oh, yes, right, good idea," and practically running off to the bathroom. Eames rummaged around in the safe, leisurely, held up a studded leather strap and slipped back into his own insinuating voice, "You really would look gorgeous in this, darling."

"Hurry up," Arthur said tightly.

Another moment, and Eames flashed a big smile. "Got it."

"Good. Now I can push you out the window."

"Are you always so hostile when you're sexually frustrated?"

The sound of Eames hitting the glass, the first sharp crack followed by the almost musical shatter, the whoosh of air in through the window—that was satisfying at least.

 

* * *

 

  
Arthur could have done the logical thing and never worked with Eames again after that—but no, here he is, with both Eames _and_ the real Adam Lambert. If he's ever thought that his work couldn't get any stranger, this evening is proof to the contrary.

They file onto the elevator, and the doors have just closed when Adam slides a hand along Arthur's jaw and kisses him, lightly, a flirtation, and it's almost, _almost_ familiar. Adam pulls away, smiling. "You looked like maybe you needed that."

"Mm," Eames says agreeably. "Our dear Arthur is very kissable, isn't he?" He turns Arthur around to him, and this kiss is familiar too in its own way. Or, at least, Eames's mouth is familiar, the shape of it, not because—it's just Arthur's job to notice things.

The elevator dings at their floor, a reminder to Arthur that he shouldn't let Eames call all the shots here, because that's not how they play this game of theirs. He bites Eames's lip, which makes Eames laugh.

Adam's eyes are bright as he steps off the elevator. "Oh, this is going to be _fun_!"

Before the door to the suite is even fully closed, Arthur tangles his hand in Adam's shirt and reels him into a kiss that is much more than a light-hearted flirtation. Because he can. Because Eames isn't in charge here. Adam makes hot, encouraging noises as he kisses back, sliding his hands along Arthur's sides.

Arthur can't stop the startled sound that spills out of him when Eames presses against his back, solid and warm. "All right then, love? Shall we have the champagne now?" Of course Arthur knows what that means: Are you ready to do the drugging and get on with the job? "Or—"

He's not expecting another option, and he looks back over his shoulder. "Or what?"

"You could give me the bloody time of day for once." Arthur has a bad angle, caught between their bodies, and he can't make out Eames's expression. If this were anyone else, Arthur would say he sounds almost—serious.

"Okay." Arthur's maybe more surprised than anyone that this is his answer.

"Okay what, darling?" Eames drawls in his ear.

"No champagne."

"Really?" Adam sounds disappointed and a little like he's worried that Arthur may have lost his mind.

"Trust me, you'll have more fun this way," Eames assures Adam, and Arthur can just picture his cheeky smile.

"I guess I'll have to take your word for that," Adam says, confused, but a good sport about it.

Eames reaches for Adam, and Arthur is pressed between their bodies as they kiss, and it's getting harder by the moment to remember why this isn't the best idea he's ever had. Adam and Eames both set on Arthur, stripping the clothes off him, making such an efficient team that if Arthur didn't know better he'd think they'd worked together before.

"It really is a nice suit," Adam says, as he carefully drapes Arthur's jacket over the back of a chair.

"You'll notice _Adam_ isn't being a jerk with my clothes," Arthur tells Eames, with a disapproving glance at the trousers and tie that Eames has flung down wherever they happened to land.

Eames frames Arthur's face in his hands and kisses him thoroughly. "Adam hasn't waited nearly as long for this." His expression is fond as he touches Arthur's cheek.

There's a message in that touch, Arthur is pretty sure: _Are you sure you really want to do this?_ Which is sweet maybe, that Eames cares, although he must know, or at least strongly suspect, that Arthur has jerked off to a scenario strikingly like this ever since the Weber job.

Arthur says, with a smile that might also be fond, "You're a bastard, you know that?"

Eames laughs delightedly. "You say the sweetest things, darling."

Adam's breath comes in an amused huff as he kisses his way across Arthur's shoulders. "You guys seriously have never had sex?"

"Not in the traditional sense, anyway," Eames answers mysteriously. "Now, let's get you out of these." He starts in on Adam's clothes, and Adam returns the favor, and soon everyone is naked.

Arthur's mouth goes dry at the sight of them, and he licks his lips, trying not to remember how Milton Weber looked doing that.

"What do you want?" Adam asks, to no one in particular, his gaze moving appreciatively over Arthur's body and then Eames's.

It's the briefest flash, just a split second, but vivid as hell—Adam between his legs, Adam's fingers inside him—except that it was actually Eames, except that it never happened at all. Arthur is built for making decisions, turning information into action, but his brain throws up its metaphorical hands at this one.

Adam's smile is kind and a little knowing, as if he can see right into Arthur's head and understands the dilemma, which Arthur really hopes isn't the case. "Okay, here's how this is going to go." Adam slides his fingers into Arthur's hair and presses a kiss to his mouth. "I'm going to make you come, and you're going to make him come."

"I heartily approve of this plan," Eames says, with a sly smile.

"Awesome. Let's get this party started." Adam wraps his hand around Arthur's wrist and pulls him over to the bed.

Arthur ends up on his back with Adam between his legs, a lot like— Adam licks a stripe up the inside of Arthur's thigh, grinning. "Mm," he declares and goes back for another taste, wrapping his lips around Arthur's cock.

"Fuck!" Arthur's head jerks up off the mattress, and he reaches for Adam's shoulder, grappling, urging him on.

It's not, as Eames likes to tease, that Arthur is "practically monastic," and he prides himself on being ready for anything, but he's not sure it's actually possible for anybody to be ready for a mouth like that.

Eames stretches out next to Arthur, stroking a hand absently up and down Arthur's chest, watching intently as Adam goes down on him. His thumb catches on Arthur's nipple, and he toys with it, making the flesh go stiff, scratching lightly, sending goosebumps up Arthur's arms. Eames nods toward Adam. "You like that, do you? Having a gorgeous rock star between your legs?"

Infuriating as ever, and Arthur forces his mouth onto Eames's, hard and a little annoyed. "You fucking know I like it."

The softly pleased look on Eames's face isn't what Arthur is expecting, and neither is the tender way he runs his thumb along Arthur's jaw as he leans down to kiss him sweetly. Arthur has thought he understood what this is, an elaborate joke, an erotic game of chicken, but now he's not so sure.

Adam is smiling up at both of them, as if he understands perfectly, and Eames props himself up on his elbow, reaches out to run his hand through Adam's hair. "I imagined you'd be good at that," he says, with a genuine note of admiration. "But I honestly don't think I gave you enough credit."

Adam's mouth curves into a wider, more devious smile around Arthur's cock, and apparently he feels the need to demonstrate just how talented he is, because suddenly there's more suction and fingers are exploring Arthur's balls and Adam is doing something with his tongue that seems like it shouldn't be possible outside of dreams. Arthur holds onto Eames's arm with one hand and Adam's shoulder with the other, and noises stream out of him until his lungs are empty and burning. _Oh God, you're killing me. Please, please, don't stop._

"Arthur," Eames says softly, watching closely, his expression hungry and a little stunned.

Arthur grabs at Eames, tugging his arm. "Come on." He wants to hear Eames sounding desperate, wants to be the one who does that to him.

Eames gets the message and scoots further up the bed, so Arthur can get his mouth on him. Eames groans at the first touch, and, Jesus, that's almost too good, the weight of Eames's cock on his tongue, Adam's mouth so hot and tight around him. It's not the best head Arthur's ever given—it's hard to concentrate when every last synapse he has is melting—but Eames seems to like it. He grips the headboard with one hand and pulls at Arthur's hair with the other, like he just can't help himself. All the while filthy, gorgeous encouragement spills out of him.

Arthur jumps when Adam starts to circle a finger around his hole, shocked spark of pleasure, and then he's pushing against Adam's hand. Fuck yes, it's what he didn't get last time, and he doesn't care if that never actually happened. He still feels like he's owed. Not just this, but also—he slides his hand between Eames's legs, and Eames's vocabulary grows more colorful.

It would be so easy to come; Arthur's thighs are trembling, and he's breathless, and there's a hot, coiled sensation in his belly. All he needs is just a little bit…more.

He doesn't get it.

"Yeah, sorry." Adam's grin is anything but apologetic when he pulls away. "I really want you to come while I'm fucking you."

He grabs supplies from the nightstand drawer. The three of them stretch out together, Adam pressed snugly against Arthur, and Arthur to Eames. They kiss and touch, exploring, Eames occasionally reaching across Arthur to get at Adam. While Adam's hand works between Arthur's legs, wet and expert, fingering him open, Arthur does the same thing to Eames.

"Enough," Eames declares at last and pulls Arthur on top of him, smiling up at him. "I rather like the way you look there."

Arthur returns the smile. He likes it too.

"Here you go, baby." Adam rolls a condom onto Arthur, and that's sexy as hell. Apparently Adam can make anything hot.

Arthur presses a finger into Eames, testing; he's slick and hot inside. "Stop fucking around, darling," Eames grates out impatiently.

"Sounds like he's ready to me." Adam grins.

Eames makes a sound when Arthur pushes inside him, low and guttural and a little bit begging, and, Jesus, that's not _fair_. Arthur doesn't want to come before he's even gotten started.

"Easy, baby." Adam strokes a hand down Arthur's back.

Arthur sucks in a breath and thrusts into Eames, who stares up at him, his pretty mouth pink and wet and open, and, fuck, the next time they do this, Arthur really wants— He pushes into Eames again and again, dragging more whimpers out of him.

"He's good at that, huh?" Adam asks, with just a little bit of a smirk.

"You could bloody well make yourself useful, you know," Eames says, trying for indignant, mostly just sounding breathless. "I have no patience with a rock star who's lazy in bed."

Adam laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I'll see what I can do."

He turns Eame's chin with his finger, just a light touch but there's something commanding about it. Eames goes easily, falling into what is possibly the filthiest kiss Arthur has ever seen. Adam slips a hand between Arthur's body and Eames's, his knuckles brushing Arthur's belly with every pull on Eames's cock, making Arthur shiver at the touch.

"Mm, yeah," Adam murmurs, his voice a husky rasp, his eyes heavy-lidded. "Don't worry, baby. I'm going to touch you too." He strokes his other hand along the curve of Arthur's ass, dipping a finger between his cheeks. "You ready for me?" He takes Arthur's mouth in a kiss just as obscenely hot as the one with Eames.

Arthur kisses back messily, and Eames is so tight around him, hot and perfect, and the idea of Adam inside him—

"Yeah, yeah, baby." Adam tears open another foil wrapper and lines up and pushes inside.

Arthur has eyes, he can see, and he knew Adam was big, but fuck. It takes a moment for him to realize that the desperate groans filling up the room are coming from him.

Eames runs a hand along Arthur's arm and cants his head up to look. "Tight, is he? I always suspected as much." He flashes a teasing smile up at Arthur.

Arthur bites Eames's shoulder, because—well, it seems the thing to do.

"Oh, you like it rough, do you, darling?" Eames looks hopeful, as if that would be the best thing that could happen to him.

Arthur doesn't have a chance to answer, because Adam thrusts into him again, pushing him into Eames, taking Arthur's breath away. So good, God. Eames goes silent and serious, staring up at Arthur, a wrinkle of concentration between his eyes as he tightens his body around Arthur's cock.

Adam strings kisses across Arthur's shoulders and grips Arthur's hips, driving into him more forcefully. Sweat breaks out on Arthur's forehead, trickles down his back. He feels the flush creeping up his chest, and he's so close to coming, but he doesn't—he wants—Eames— He wraps his hand around Eames's cock. It's his job to get Eames off, and Arthur takes his responsibilities seriously.

Eames digs his fingers into Arthur's biceps and stares up at him, pushing wildly into his thrusts. Adam is a warm weight on Arthur's back, and his cock is working that place inside that feels almost too good to stand and—fuck. The scent of sex and sweat rises in the air, and the harsh sound of panting. Adam is sucking this place on Arthur's neck that he will probably still feel three days from now, and there's a little trickle of perspiration along the side of Eames's face that Arthur is desperate to taste.

There's not least bit of confusion in Arthur's mind now, because even his biggest dreams aren't nearly this good.

He does manage to last until Eames comes, but it's a close thing. He collapses on top of Eames, a sweaty mess, and Adam whispers in his ear, "So hot, baby," and really goes at him. Arthur reaches back, gripping Adam's hip, pulling Adam into him. He's sore and satisfied and a little winded, and he's not going to come again, not yet, but it still feels good, having Eames's arms around him while Adam comes inside him.

They untangle and flop onto the bed, languid and fucked out. Eames commandeers Arthur's shoulder, and Arthur absently threads his fingers through Eames's hair. Eames pushes into the touch like a friendly cat. Adam presses close on the other side, and Arthur turns his head lazily, tilts up his chin.

Adam grins as he leans in to kiss. "You are seriously adorable, has anybody ever told you that?"

"Don't lie now, darling." Arthur feels the rumble of Eames's voice against his shoulder.

Arthur's mouth curves up softly. "It sounds a lot less condescending when Adam says it."

Eames bites at Arthur's nipple. "I'll show you condescension," he mutters. "I may just need an hour or so."

Adam laughs. "Sounds like fun. And we're definitely getting champagne this time."

It's a reminder that they have a job to do, and Arthur stares up at the ceiling, suddenly so alert it's almost painful. Next to him, Eames lies still, regulating his breathing, but Arthur can sense him thinking, waiting. They both listen for signs that Adam has fallen asleep, and soon enough his breathing slows, deepens.

Eames pushes up onto his elbow, looks down at Arthur, tender and lingering, and Arthur's throat goes tight. "Is this really the only way you could think of to get me into bed?" he whispers, trying for exasperation but it comes out more genuinely curious.

"Arthur, darling, I had loads of other ideas. Just none of them worked." He meets Arthur's eye questioningly. "So what's it to be then? Back to work or say bugger off and go for round two?"

"Bugger off," comes drowsily from the other side of the bed.

They both freeze, and then Eames starts to shake, laughing soundlessly, and that's so perfectly, maddeningly Eames that Arthur has to kiss him.

Bugger off it is.


End file.
